


Dread Rites

by fluttermoth



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Solas (Dragon Age), Desire Demons (Dragon Age), Dubious Consent, Family Loss, M/M, Magical Accidents, Magical Bond, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Touch-Starved Solas, grumpy elves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: Tamlin Lavellan is lost and alone in the wake of his clan’s destruction. Solas tolerates the boy’s attempts at friendship, but he will never see past his stubborn Dalish pride or the hateful marks on his face. He is mortal. Temporary. A broken piece of a stillborn world.When Solas interrupts Lavellan in the middle of an ancient rite, the magic unleashed threatens his plans. They are linked together. Bound by blood or magic— or is it something else entirely?
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 39
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a rewrite of an earlier fanfiction. However, life got it the way (as it often does), and I stopped working on the story. Since I am self-isolating, I had time to return to it, but it wasn't easy to pick up a story I'd written so long ago. There were a lot of things I wanted to do differently, so here we are!
> 
> I am not following the Inquisition timeline _exactly_ , and I will be playing fast and loose with some lore. Mind the tags, but I will place warnings at the beginning of chapters that require them.
> 
> Elven translations will be highlighted. Just hover over the text with your cursor to view the translation. I don't know how well this trick will work for mobile devices, so I will put the translations in the chapter notes.

It was dusk at the end of summer, and three companions sat fireside after a long day.

With little to do in the liminal hours between dinner and sleep, Solas sat with a bundle of elfroot and ground the trimmings into a salve for wounds. Varric ran an oiled cloth across his beloved crossbow. Cassandra pretended to read, but her eyes kept veering to the path that leads to the Crow Fens. They all studiously avoided conversation. The day was trying, and none were in possession of the patience needed for conflicting opinions.

“Tamlin has been gone for a long time,” Cassandra said, finally breaking the silence.

Solas’ gaze flicked to the path the boy walked nearly half an hour ago. Tamlin left quickly. He voiced his desire to build a shrine for his clan. No one questioned it. No one argued when he refused company.

“He’ll be fine,” Varric said.

“One of us should’ve gone with him.” Cassandra’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword. The Exalted Plains kept everyone on edge. It only got worse after dark.

“Look, if you want to interrupt the Inquisitor in the middle of his manly cry, be my guest. But I’ve seen that kid fracture more skulls than I care to count. So, I’m going to give him the space he needs.”

Cassandra marked the page in her book. “Has he talked to you about it?”

“I haven’t asked. I’m no good with this shit. What about you, Chuckles?”

“No,” Solas said. He didn’t intend to. He read the reports. Clan Lavellan’s end was gruesome and completely avoidable. They could’ve asked for help, but their foolish Dalish pride kept them from reaching out to the Inquisitor and his _shemlen_ army.

“Maybe you should,” Varric said.

“Why would I— Oh! Because we’re both _elves_.”

Varric cursed under his breath. “It has nothing to do with you being elves.”

“No?”

“Tamlin has sought your counsel in the past,” Cassandra cut in. “He respects you.”

“He’s sought yours as well,” Solas said.

“What she’s saying is Tamlin sees you as a friend. Or is your head so far up the Fade you hadn’t noticed?”

The dwarf had a point. The Inquisitor spent an excessive amount of time with him, but the same could be said of Sera and Dorian. The latter was better suited for coddling Tamlin. On more than one occasion, Solas overheard them flirting in the library.

He couldn’t say why the Inquisitor sought him out, and with such frequency _._ He wondered if it had to do with the mark. Like calls to like. If his magic was trying to return to its rightful master, it might feel like kinship to the Inquisitor.

Sensing there would be no end to the quarrel until Tamlin returned, Solas stood and said, “Perhaps, you’re right, Master Tethras—”

“Maker, I love hearing that.”

“What if you run into trouble?” Cassandra said, reaching for her boots. “I’m coming with you.”

“No need,” Solas said. “I’ll signal if I require assistance.”

“But—”

“Building a shrine for a fallen clan is a deeply personal task. The Inquisitor will not want an audience.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “Very well. Be careful, Solas.”

Stepping through the archway of a crumbling ruin, Solas was glad to find company in the brittle trees, thick shadows, and silence. He walked a sodden path that turned into knee-deep water as he moved into the fens. The unpleasant slog through a swamp offered him a moment of solitude. A moment of peace. The song of the night brought the wind rustling through the leaves, birds roosting, crickets chirping, and a beautiful, tenebrous stillness. A stillness that only comes with nightfall.

Despite what Varric thought, Tamlin might not appreciate Solas coming. Their last conversation, a conversation about the Dalish, did not end well.

_It was the black and frigid hour before dawn. Tamlin was in the stables, brushing down his bay stallion. Solas, always an early riser, came to the stables to tend to his horse. Although he hoped for peace, tendrils of a strange dream clung like spiders’ silk, slowing his thoughts and stirring his temper._

_The two elves exchanged pleasantries as they tended to their mounts. It was turning out to be a pleasant morning of mundane chores before the sunrise, but then Tamlin unwittingly stumbled into the one subject that always set him off._

_“Solas,” Tamlin said. “In your explorations of the Fade, um...”_

_“I’m listening.”_

_“No. It’s stupid.”_

_“Nonsense. Ask your question.”_

_“Have you ever come across any memories of us — of our people?”_

_“Our people?” He asked. “Who are our people? Enlighten me.”_

_“Us,” Tamlin said. “Free elves. Not slaves. Not those poor things that live in the slums. The elves who refused to surrender when the humans broke their treaty and destroyed the Dales.”_

_“Your Keeper got their history right. Let us mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly! Perhaps we should plant a tree?”_

_“What’s your problem with the Dalish?”_

_“My problem is that I have offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than superstition.”_

_“Then why attack me for asking a question?”_

_Tamlin turned and left the stable before Solas could respond. The horses pawed at the ground, tossing their heads in protest of the sharp voices._

Hours later, Solas learned of Clan Lavellan’s violent end. He wondered if his response would’ve been different if he’d known about it. He liked to think so. Solas was many things, but he was not cruel. Not without reason, anyway.

Solas’ sympathy for Tamlin waned as he wandered deeper into the swamp. He was just about to return to camp to fetch his horse when a flicker of firelight caught his eye. The light led him to a crumbling bridge that crossed a boiling hot spring. The acrid tang of sulfur filled the air, overpowering the damp decay of the swamp.

Tamlin stood at a shrine dedicated to Fen’Harel. It was a strange place for a Dalish elf to pray, but Solas was not of a mind to disturb him. So, he sat on the steps that lead to the shrine, content to wait. He could keep watch. The boy hunter should have noticed the wolf at his back, but Tamlin’s grief blinded him. The Crow Fens was wrought with danger. One misstep often led wayward travelers into the belly of a beast.

“Hear me, Fen’Harel. Fen'Hahren.”

A chill crept down his spine.

“Come to me. Run with me. Hunt with me. And know that I am yours.”

Surely, he didn’t hear that right. The cold pricking his skin bloomed into a warm sensation that oozed down his spine and pooled just behind his navel. Tamlin’s voice became louder then, echoing in his hears and _in his brain_. It should have alarmed him — it _did_ alarm him — but rather than reach for his staff, Solas stared at Tamlin’s back, transfixed.

“My flesh is your feast.”

Fen’Harel was no god that could be invoked or offer blessings. But did it matter? These were just silly Dalish customs. It’s not as if they were _real_.

Tamlin gripped a dagger. The Anchor flashed. Eldritch power lit up the shrine as he pulled the blade across his unmarked palm.

“My blood is your wine.”

This didn’t make sense. The Dalish did not pray to him, and he was grateful for it. That separated Solas from the Evanuris. He was no god, and he would not claim to be. No invocation could call him; no ritual could bind him. But as the Inquisitor’s blood ran down his arm, he felt a shift in the air.

“My life is your succor.”

Did the Anchor give this rite power? Tamlin was in possession of ancient magic — Solas’ magic. It was _his orb_ that marked the Inquisitor. It was _his power_ that allowed the boy to close the rifts. And it was _his magic_ that made the world forget this rite never existed.

Tamlin smeared his blood across the altar. “Hold me close.”

“No!” Solas stumbled onto the crumbling walkway. Tamlin whipped around and stared at him, wide-eyed, as Solas closed the distance between them and grabbed his hand.

The mark ignited, and the two elves were thrown across the grotto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen’Hahren: Elder Wolf


	2. Chapter 2

Time warped and stretched.

Solas had the distinct feeling of falling head over heels. He couldn’t tell up from down. He couldn’t _breathe_. After what felt like an eternity, a pair of strong hands hauled him from the water and onto the rocky shore.

“Solas?” Tamlin’s face swam into view. “I’m— I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened!”

Solas stared up at the Inquisitor, too stunned to speak. This boy was so unforgivably Dalish. He was a creature of the wilds; all wiry muscle, sun-kissed skin, and long, sable hair. He had the look of an elf that appeared in cautionary tales meant to scare maidens away from the woods. So, why...

“Oh, shit. You’re really hurt, aren’t you?”

The Inquisitor’s hand touched his cheek. The mark flickered as tendrils of magic — his magic — reached for him. _Hello,_ it crooned, licking his skin. _Did you miss me?_

He shoved Tamlin away and rolled onto his side. His heart racing. “What _was_ that?”

“I don’t know! The mark has been stable. I have no idea what—”

“No,” he growled. “What were you _doing_?”

“Praying.”

“That was no prayer.”

Tamlin frowned and looked away.

“Please, lethallin, I am only curious.” It was a dirty trick, using that term on one who just lost their clan. But such terms always yielded positive results with Tamlin.

“It’s a ritual Keeper Deshanna used to do in times of hardship.” Tamlin knelt beside him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Why _that_ ritual?”

_Because I am lost, and I do not know the way._

It was Tamlin’s voice, but it came as a whisper, just at the edge of hearing. A sound rooted in the back of his head. It was so jarring, Solas stumbled to the edge of the bank and wretched.

“Andraste’s tits! Cassandra’s going to _kill_ me for this.”

“She will not touch you!”

A hush fell across the hollow.

Even the gurgling hot springs quieted in the wake of his outburst. Solas didn’t recognize his own voice; he didn’t understand the surge of rage that came over him.

“Yeah, okay, let’s get you back to camp.” Tamlin spoke as if he were talking to a doddering old man. He waded to where Solas knelt, hooking one hand beneath his arm, the other resting on his chest. Tamlin’s blood soaked through his shirt. The heat of his hand was like a lance through his chest, through the very heart of him. Solas gasped for air, unable to get enough, as a surge of pain and pleasure threatened to fracture his body. His spirit.

“Don’t—” He shoved Tamlin away.

“Apologies, hahren. I’ll keep my filthy, Dalish paws to myself.”

“Calm yourself. It has nothing to do with—”

“How long were you watching me, anyway?” Tamlin asked, accusation dripping from every syllable.

“Long enough,” Solas said. “You are fortunate I came looking for you. It was almost Cassandra.”

That cooled Tamlin’s rising temper. “Fenedhis,” he hissed.

“Indeed.” Solas stared at the boy, his form limned in silvery moonlight. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine.”

“ _Are_ you?

Tamlin heaved a longsuffering sigh. “I’m not the one who hit his fucking head, am I?”

“I didn’t hit my head.”

“That sounds like something someone with a head injury would say.”

“We should return to camp,” he said, turning to leave. Solas had no injuries, but he felt a headache settling in. He was in no mood to argue with Tamlin.

Not a word passed between them as they walked back to camp. Solas paid careful attention to his movements. His thoughts. The mark had reached out to him. It called to him. And through some stupid twist of fate, it bound him to the Inquisitor. What other explanation was there? Tamlin was no mage, but Fen’Harel’s magic hummed through his body, and it was _his magic_ that heard the call and answered the need.

“Maker’s balls,” Varric said by way of greeting. “What happened to you?”

“Is that blood?” Cassandra demanded. She was on her feet and reaching for her sword, her eyes darting to the path.

“Everything’s fine,” Tamlin said. “I tripped over a rock and fell in the water. I tried to grab Solas for balance, and I took us both down. I cut my hand on the way. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? Try standing downwind. Ugh.”

“Varric is right.” Cassandra wrinkled her nose. “You two smell like—”

“A bog?” Tamlin helpfully added.

Varric and Cassandra shared a pained look.

“I never thought I’d say this, but—”

“Yes, Varric. I would be more than happy to share my tent with you.”

Tamlin’s smile was tense. “Oh, come on. We don’t smell _that_ bad.”

“Yes, you do,” Cassandra said, and that was the end of the argument.

Solas had no desire to share quarters with the boy, not when he needed to be away from him to clear his head. But he would not quarrel over sleeping arrangements. The Inquisitor wouldn’t either. Despite his youth, he took his duties seriously.

Tamlin peeled off his sodden shirt and wrung it out. Solas bit the inside of his cheek, unable to control his wandering eyes. Everyone within the Inquisitor’s inner circle had seen each other in various stages of undress. So, it was not the first time Solas laid eyes on him, but it was the first time he _looked_. Tamlin was built like a warrior; broad chest and shoulders, powerful arms, and well-defined stomach muscles that tapered into a V as they dipped below the waist of his breeches—

Solas tore his eyes away.

The night wore on. Varric slipped off to bed, and Cassandra followed shortly after. Solas and Tamlin changed into dry clothes. Their sodden clothing was scattered around camp; laid out on flat rocks or hung up in tree branches to dry. Tamlin crouched near the fire, rubbing warmth into his bare arms.

Solas knelt beside him. “Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“You have an open wound.”

“It’s fine.”

Solas placed a bowl of water between them, collected from rain barrels. “You will take infection,” he said calmly. “What a tragedy it would be if a festering wound took out the mighty Inquisitor.”

“Andruil’s tits! You are persistent.”

“A trait we both share,” Solas said. “Give me your hand.”

Tamlin grumbled under his breath and held out his hand. Solas inspected the cut with gentle fingertips. He’d expected to feel a jolt, to feel something when he touched Tamlin, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Relief mingled with disappointment and settled like a lead weight in his stomach.

Solas flushed the wound with water and blotted it dry. “About your clan—”

“I don’t want to talk to _you_ about my clan.”

“Inquisitor,” he said, but it felt too formal, too impersonal. “Tamlin— I’m sorry for what happened to them, and for how I treated you after.”

Tamlin bit his lip, and Solas continued his work. Once the cut was clean, he covered Tamlin’s hand with his, feeding healing energy into the wound, until he felt the flesh knit together.

“I—” Tamlin stared into the fire. “I thought we were friends.”

Solas was prepared for Tamlin’s anger, but not his sorrow. He was not like Cole, who could find the hurts and mend them with fumbling fingers. His own heartache was buried deep beneath layers of half-truth’s and centuries of dreaming. There was no room in his heart for Tamlin’s pain, but guilt nagged at him.

“Ir abelas. I did not treat you as one should treat a friend.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you.”

Tamlin’s fingers curled around his, and muscle in his body tensed at the contact.

_Hold me close._

Solas was damn near panting at the contact, at the surge of power passing between them — a surge that didn’t affect Tamlin in the slightest. He pulled away and folded his shaking hands in his lap. His heartbeat was riotous, fluttering like a wild bird beating itself to death against the bars of its cage.

“I didn’t expect you to forgive me so easily, nor do I deserve it, but— thank you.”

“I have enough enemies.”

Solas smiled at the boy. “You are well, though? No lingering side-effects from the mark flaring?”

“I feel fine. I don’t know what happened.” Tamlin’s dark gaze slid to him. “Any theories?”

“None.” _None that I wish to share, at any rate._

 _It is your mark, your magic,_ he reminded himself. _You are linked._

If that were true, then surely Tamlin would feel something. How could he not sense the power burning between them when they touched?

Prayer was a shackle; a yoke mortals took on willingly for their gods. The Evanuris encouraged such devotion. What better way to attract servants than to pose as a god to lure passionate slaves who would never question them, and never abandon them? But Solas was not like the Evanuris. He had partners, soldiers, generals, and many elves that were devoted to his cause. He never had a votary. He never _wanted_ one.

For centuries, the Dalish cursed his name. But Tamlin—

_My life is your succor._

What did that mean? What did any of it mean?

“May I ask you a question about your clan?”

“I know what you want to ask,” Tamlin sighed. “We were always discouraged from discussing our beliefs with outsiders. Especially other elves.”

“You will find no judgment here.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But, the scouts—”

Solas’ gaze followed where Tamlin’s led. The scouts were a fair distance away, but one of them, Deryn, was a Dalish elf. He didn’t know how devout she was, but he could understand the boy’s need for caution. The humans still struggled with the idea of an elf as Andraste’s Herald. They didn’t need the Dalish getting into an uproar about the Inquisitor worshiping the most feared and reviled of their pantheon.

“Fortunately, I know a place where we won’t be overheard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethallin - Friend  
> Hahren - Elder  
> Fenedhis - A common curse. The Dragon Age Wiki says the meaning is unknown, but the fandom says it probably means 'wolf dick' so we'll go with that!  
> Ir abelas - Forgive me


	3. Chapter 3

This curiosity was beneath him.

Solas could not stop thinking of the scene in the grotto; Tamlin’s prayer, the need in his words, the raw desperation that guided his hand. How would he react if he knew Solas’ truth? Would he laugh? Would he rage? Would he fall to his knees in supplication?

This curiosity would undo him.

A wiser man would scour the Fade for his friends, who led him through many difficult times. Wisdom might guide him to a way to break the spell the boy had unwittingly placed on him. This enchantment could undo everything. Solas couldn’t stand the thought of all his careful planning burned to dust based on nothing more than a wayward spell and his insatiable need for answers.

Though he tried to talk himself out of it, Solas found Tamlin in the Fade.

He _really_ shouldn’t have. But he wouldn’t fool himself by thinking there was any other option. Ever since the boy stepped out of the Fade, Solas was a little bit doomed. In the beginning, Tamlin was a mystery. A Fade-touched mortal with the ability to close the Rifts. He was what the world needed when the world needed it. Even Solas couldn’t have predicted such an outcome.

The ritual changed everything. Tamlin was no longer a mere curiosity, but an obsession, and Solas couldn’t afford such a distraction. Is this what worship did to the Evanuris? Would Tamlin’s veneration change him? Would it force him to become the monster the Dalish believed the Dread Wolf to be?

Solas wouldn’t let that happen. He would find an end to his madness.

He found Tamlin standing by the edge of a crystal-clear lake. The air was humid and smelled of midnight storms. Solas’ eyes scanned the blurry horizon of the scene, taking in the shadows gathering along the edges. The spirits of the Fade pressed close, drawn to the Anchor like moths to a flame.

 _Keep your distance._ _Ask your questions. Find your answers._

“Where are we?” Solas asked.

“The Fade.”

“ _Tamlin._ ”

“A nameless place, north of Starkhaven,” Tamlin said, grinning at his earlier jest. “I always liked it here.”

“Have you always had such control over your dreams?”

“No,” he said. “My dreams have been lucid ever since the Conclave.”

Solas sat on a log, his fingers brushing against the lichen growing on the bark. It was rare for a non-mage to have such control over their dreams. Mark or no mark, this kind of control was impressive.

“Do the spirits ever approach you?”

“I’ve never seen them before. Do you think it has anything to do with the mark flaring?”

“It is possible, but we mustn’t forget where we are. The Exalted Plains has seen a great many battles, and the veil is thin here.” Solas gave the boy a sidelong glance. “Probably not the best location for a blood ritual.”

“It wasn’t—” Tamlin blew out a frustrated breath. “It was an offering. That’s all.”

“And you think it had no power?”

“You think it did?”

Solas studiously avoided the question. “I have learned much of the Dalish in my explorations of the Fade. I have seen Keepers performing ceremonies meant to protect their clans from Fen’Harel, rather than performing rites to invoke him.”

“I—”

“Do not look so surprised. I know what I saw.” _And felt._

“Right. The Fen’Harel thing—” After some hesitation, Tamlin sat down next to him. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Then answer a simple question. Why does your clan worship Fen’Harel?”

“Because a Keeper many generations back decided it?”

“That is not an answer,” Solas said, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

“Honestly, I’m just a hunter. I wasn’t trained as a First, so I’m not equipped for an in-depth theological debate. But I can give you the basics. Would that make you happy?”

“Perhaps.” Solas tilted his head. “Go on.”

“Right. So, Dalish lore tells us Fen’Harel sealed the Creators and the Forgotten Ones away because he’s a wicked trickster or just plain evil, depending on who you ask.” Tamlin looked up at the sky as the wind picked up, and the storm clouds moved in. “My clan— we think it’s more complicated than that. Fen’Harel must’ve had a good reason for sealing the gods away. Maybe he meant to protect us, not punish us.”

The mere idea of a heretical clan of Dalish worshipping the Dread Wolf thrilled him. Their violent end was a cruel twist of fate. It was typical. _See what happens when you follow the Dread Wolf’s path?_

“So, your beliefs are based on, what? A theory?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“It depends on who you ask. I’ve encountered many Dalish who consider themselves perfect. The sole keepers of elven lore. The same could be said of the Chantry and their followers. They believe the stories that have been passed down without question.”

“Keeper Deshanna taught us to be wary of anyone who claims to know the mind of a god, be it the Creators, the Maker, or even Fen’Harel, because that god often speaks in a voice of their own wishing.”

“Your Keeper was a wise woman.”

“Yeah,” Tamlin said thickly. “She was.”

“And what prompted you to— to do what you did tonight?”

“I wished to honor my clan in my own way.” Tamlin idly picked at the lichen. “I know Fen’Harel isn’t listening. But it felt good to do something familiar.”

The boy spoke true; Fen’Harel did not listen to prayer. He could not hear it... unless he was only a few feet away.

“When we return to Skyhold I would like to study the mark. I want to know why it flared.”

“You don’t think it has something to do with Corypheus, do you?”

“Why would it?”

“I know his orb is elven, but it’s his power, right? Dorian says there are paintings in the Magesterium’s archives of men holding similar orbs.”

Solas nodded. “The ancient humans took much from the elves.”

“But Corypheus is from that time, right? The orb being of elven origin doesn’t matter if it belongs to him. What if he’s using my mark to track my movements? What if he could hurt me or worse— possess me and use me to hurt people? What if—”

“Atish'an, da'len. He cannot harm you.” _I will not allow it._

Tamlin frowned at him. “Do not call me da'len.”

“You are younger than me.” _By centuries._

“So?” Tamlin’s dark gaze bored into him. The boy was not unlike a wolf on the trail of a wounded rabbit. He was focused. Feral. “Is that how you think of me? As a child?”

Solas' mouth went dry when his mind conjured the memory of Tamlin’s shirtless form. It was so easy to get carried away in the Fade. Everything felt stronger. Solid. Solas felt his body respond to the mere thought of what Tamlin looked like beneath his Dalish armor. It was distracting, this _want_. This budding desire. It was wrong.

Tamlin was too young, too bright, and would burn too quickly.

“No,” he said, his voice rough.

“Good.”

Desperate to change the subject, Solas asked, “why do you wear Andruil’s vallaslin?”

“Our clan wasn’t the only clan roaming the Free Marches. We had to blend in if we wanted to survive. Not everyone in my clan takes the vallaslin. Only those of us who’ve been chosen to interact with the other clans bear the marks.”

“Why did you?”

“If I refused, my sister would’ve volunteered,” he said, the bitter ache of loss hanging from his words. “I couldn’t bear to see her face covered in by this— this _lie._ So, I took the vallaslin so she could remain barefaced. If Fen’Harel’s vallaslin hadn’t been lost to time, perhaps she could’ve had the honor of wearing it.”

Before he could stop himself, Solas said, “Assuming it ever existed.”

“You could find out, couldn’t you?” Tamlin scooted closer to him, their thighs touching. “You discover memories sometimes, right? Can you find Fen’Harel’s vallaslin?”

Poor boy. How very Dalish of him to be so attached to the vallaslin. The Dread Wolf, the god of rebellion, spent his youth learning how to remove those hateful marks. He never created them.

“I don’t know—”

“I know you think it’s stupid. But I hate this lie that I’m forced to wear. I want to be marked by _my_ god.”

Solas was hot and cold all at once. Too close. Tamlin was too damn close. It had been so long since someone touched him. So long since he _wanted_ to be touched. He had to come to his senses. This desire wasn’t real. It was all a result of the rite.

“You’re uncomfortable,” Tamlin said. “I’m sorry, Solas. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. Only— I have never delved so deep into the past before. I do not want you to get your hopes up, only to be disappointed.”

Tamlin looked dubious. “Give yourself some credit. You’ve seen Arlathan and the ancient elves! Surely you can find this— _if_ , as you said, it exists.”

“Flattery will not guarantee results.”

“I have faith in you.”

Solas bit back a laugh. “I think we’ve discussed matters of faith quite enough for one evening.”

Solas left the boy to his dreaming. Being near him in the Fade, in a small realm of his design, was dangerous. Unfortunately, being awake in the bedroll next to Tamlin was even worse. Because he found himself wanting to touch his tawny skin, to run his hands along the hard-earned muscle, and to taste that perfect mouth. He couldn’t stop thinking of what he said— how he wanted to be marked by his god. Solas bit his lip, his body aching with need.

_If I marked you, fen'len, it would be with my teeth. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atish'an, da'len - Peace, child.  
> Fen'len - Wolf child/little wolf.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the switch from Solas’ POV to Tamlin’s isn’t too jarring. Tamlin was having some feelings, and I needed to write about them.

It was early afternoon, and Tamlin was already exhausted.

Traipsing around the countryside and killing random strangers somehow took less endurance than entertaining the small court gathered at Skyhold. Tamlin spent his early hours with Leliana, debriefing her on the situation with the undead in the Exalted Plains. Then, he spent the rest of the morning going over strategy with Cullen. He thought to escape by noon, but Josephine dragged him off to have lunch with a visiting dignitary from Nevarra.

The manic morning was good for one thing— it kept him from overthinking. Even though humiliation nipped at his heels, he could outrun it when he was distracted with a million mundane tasks. Now that he had a quiet interlude, all he could think about were the strange looks Solas threw at him ever since he found him at Fen’Harel’s shrine. It only got worse after they met in the Fade. The way Solas looked at him... He probably thought Tamlin was nothing more than some feral elf.

Solas wasn’t overly judgmental about Tamlin’s faith, at least. He was curious, and curiosity was okay. It was easier to manage than his outright loathing of the Dalish. He was concerned about the mark flaring, and Tamlin was supposed to meet with him this afternoon to discuss it, but he couldn’t deal with him right now. _Of course_ , it flared when Solas touched him. Never mind Solas caught him in the middle of an ancient rite, but it was _Solas_. The mage had been making Tamlin’s pulse leap ever since Haven.

The last thing Tamlin needed was another meeting. He needed a friend.

He darted up the staircase just off the great hall, bypassing the rotunda and stepping right into the library. Dorian was rifling through a stack of books and muttering to himself, only voicing his complaints louder when he noticed Tamlin.

“All these 'gifts' to the Inquisition, and the best they can do is the Malefica Imperio? Trite propaganda,” he said, waving the offending book at Tamlin. “But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it.”

“We’ve barely settled in, and you’re already critiquing my library.” Those words felt so strange on his tongue. _My library._ He never owned anything aside from the clothes on his back, and now he had a library.

“I wouldn’t have to if you could find some rebellious heretic archivist to join the cause.”

“Isn’t that your role?”

Dorian turned to face him. “I was hoping to fill the ‘smart, handsome, charming mage’ role.”

Tamlin grinned. “Can’t you do both?”

“Hmph. Perhaps. I am quite talented.” Dorian’s easy smile lit up the room. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me boast, did you?”

“No, but I don’t mind.” Tamlin stepped closer to Dorian. “I—”

Dorian’s smile fell. “Are you all right?”

Everything crashed down on him all at once. He swallowed around a lump in his throat, his eyes stinging. _No_ , he wanted to say. _I’m not all right._ _I lost my clan. My family. I’m surrounded by strangers and stone walls, and I want to sleep beneath an open sky. I miss the shuffle of halla hooves and the Keeper’s stories. I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life._

“It’s just good to see you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Dorian before he could stop himself.

Dorian stiffened, but he returned the embrace. “I suppose I don’t mind random displays of affection, but—” He pulled back, his hands resting on Tamlin’s shoulders. “Are you sure you’re all right? It’s completely understandable if you’re not. What happened to your family was—”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “The Exalted Plains were just, um, weird.”

“Weird enough to shake you?” Dorian linked his arm around Tamlin’s. “What you need is a drink, my friend.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?”

“Nonsense.” Dorian steered them down the circular stairway before Tamlin could argue.

“You’re going to get mind-numbingly drunk, and you can tell me what has you so shaken, or you can drink the memory away entirely.”

“I think I’d like to drink it away entirely.”

“It’s settled then!”

Tamlin allowed himself to be led, not thinking of anything beyond drinking a copious amount of ale and getting lost in a good conversation. They were likely to get swept up by Bull and his men, and that always made for a fun evening.

Dorian pulled him into the rotunda, swanning through the room of murals as if they were painted for him alone. Tamlin’s pace slowed, and his arm slipped free of Dorian’s. He wanted to forget his duties so badly, but he couldn’t just ditch Solas.

“Get the tab started,” Tamlin said to Dorian’s questioning look. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Duty calls, I see,” he said, glancing at Solas before leaving the room.

Tamlin took a steadying breath and approached Solas’ desk. He was the antithesis of a Dalish elf, but he was the closest thing to a Keeper Tamlin had (and he doubted he would appreciate the comparison.) The elf had an unmistakable presence. He held himself with such confidence. Shoulders squared, and head held high. How an apostate from the wilds managed to walk like a prince, Tamlin had no idea.

“Do we need to reschedule?” Solas’ mouth curved up into an _almost_ smile.

“No,” Tamlin said. “I’m quite happy to delay my inevitable defeat at Diamondback.”

“This won’t take long. Dorian will still have ample opportunity to take all your coin.”

Tamlin breathed a laugh, relieved to be back to joking rather than discussing his clan or faith. “That hurts, Solas.”

“The truth often does.”

“So, where do you want to do this?” Tamlin felt the press of people all around him. It would be a disaster if the mark went off inside.

Solas pushed away from his desk and stood. “Follow me.”

* * *

Solas led him to the battlements above the hayloft. The mage was leaning against the parapet, gazing at the snow-capped mountains. Tamlin tried to appreciate the view, but heights did not agree with him. Rather than give himself a case of vertigo, he closed his eyes, letting the afternoon sun warm his shoulders.

Tamlin cursed his sense of duty. He did _not_ want to be here.

He’d not suffered a crush like this since boyhood. It was pathetic and not likely to transform into anything more than useless pining. Solas was older and aloof, and he didn’t seem to have any interest in anything that didn’t involve the Fade.

It's not as if Tamlin didn’t have options. His friendship with Dorian had advanced to flirting and playful touches. The Iron Bull made a pass at him once. Granted, Bull was _very_ drunk, and they’d killed a dragon. But it was nice to be seen as a man, rather than the untouchable Herald of Andraste.

“Has the mark flared since the other night?” Solas asked, startling Tamlin out of his brooding.

“It’s been stable,” he said. “I’m a little embarrassed it flared at all.”

“Don’t be.” Solas stepped closer to him. “You are no mage, and yet you command an unknown magic. It’s impressive. Even amid battle, your indomitable focus never wavers.”

“My indomitable focus?” Tamlin asked, his cheeks heating at the compliment.

“Presumably.” Solas tilted his head. The motion reminded Tamlin of a wolf when it’s seen something particularly interesting. “I have yet to see it dominated, but I imagine the sight would be fascinating.”

For a brief, _wild_ moment, he wondered if Sera threw a jar of bees at his feet. He was tingly and hot, and unless he was hallucinating, Solas was flirting with him.

Tamlin looked down at his feet, unable to withstand the gravity of Solas’ stare. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, a small thrill racing along his skin.

“I’d rather not say.”

His head snapped up at the admission, and he was struck momentarily speechless by the look in Solas’ eyes. Those deep pools of electric blue seethed with eldritch power, not unlike the mark on his palm. Solas shifted his weight from foot-to-foot, moving like a cat preparing to pounce, and Tamlin felt _so small_ , despite being taller and heavier than his fellow elf.

Maker’s balls. When was the last time someone looked at him like that? Even Dorian’s flirtations were subtle compared to the I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive look Solas was giving him.

Tamlin cleared his throat. “Are you still interested in studying the mark?”

“Yes,” Solas said, and the look was gone. It was as if nothing had passed between them. “Shall we sit?”

“Yeah, sure.” Tamlin sat on the ground, tucking his legs beneath his body.

Solas knelt in front of Tamlin and took his hand, his thumb drifting over his scarred palm. The Anchor flickered in time with his heartbeat, but it was otherwise quiet.

“Does this cause you any discomfort?”

“No.”

Solas’ eyes flicked up to his. “You feel nothing?” he asked. It was almost an accusation.

“I feel your hands on mine,” Tamlin said.

“Is that all?”

“It— feels nice?”

“Does it give you pleasure?”

Tamlin swallowed hard. “What—”

“Answer the question, Tamlin.”

“Emotionally, perhaps? I have fists and swords and arrows flying at me all the time. It’s nice to be touched like this.” The mage’s thumb drew lazy circles across his palm. “It’s not sending me into fits of ecstasy. It’s just... nice.”

Solas stared down at Tamlin’s hand. “I see.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

Tamlin grinned. “Well, if this was all part of your plan to get me alone so you could hold my hand, it worked.”

“I did not come here under false pretenses,” Solas said, dropping his hand. He stood and walked briskly to the stairs. “Apologies, Inquisitor. I have taken up enough of your time.”

“Wait—” Tamlin leaped to his feet and blocked the stairway. “I’m sorry, Solas. I don’t want you to go.”

“And what do you hope to accomplish by having me stay?”

“I don’t have any ulterior motives if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then do not accuse me of having them,” Solas snapped.

“I _did_ apologize for that.”

Solas sighed. “So, you did.”

“I won’t force you to stay, but I do have one question.”

“Ask.”

“ _Were_ you flirting with me? When you were talking about seeing me, um, dominated?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Solas squared his shoulders. “This is highly unusual for me.”

“What is? Flirting?”

“It’s been a long time since—” He looked away. “Well, it’s been a long time. Let’s leave it at that.”

Tamlin smirked, unable to stop the words that came from his mouth. “Is that why you get off on hand-holding?”

“Su an’banal i’ma!” Solas threw his hands up in exasperation. “Must you turn everything into a joke?”

Tamlin sneered. Solas’ grasp of the Elvhen language was far superior to his own. The Dalish remembered bits and pieces, but Solas was a walking lexicon. Tamlin was often entranced by the rhythm of the language, even if he didn’t understand it. But right now? He just wanted to shut Solas up.

“I can be serious if that’s what you want,” Tamlin growled.

He stepped into Solas’ space, close enough to smell the cloves on his breath, and count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Tamlin touched the side of his face, caressing his bottom lip with his thumb. He leaned in slowly, giving the mage ample opportunity to put a stop to it. When Solas didn’t pull away, Tamlin pressed a kiss to his mouth. It was tentative. _Chaste_ , even—

Until Solas cupped Tamlin’s face and pressed his tongue into his mouth.

A flurry of activity followed. Solas pushing Tamlin into the wall just outside Cullen’s door, his hands sliding into his hair and _pulling_ , dragging a whimper from him. Solas answered with a growl that reverberated deep in his chest. It was like kissing a wild creature. A beast that chased pleasure with desperation, like he was waiting for it for _ages_. The kiss was savage and skilled. Every press of lips, every swipe of tongue, every catch of teeth— it was deliberate and confident. Solas’ hands were all over him, sliding across his chest, down his sides, and to his hips. When Solas palmed the aching flesh between his legs, Tamlin broke the kiss. He needed _air._

“Solas,” he gasped. “We should take this elsewhere unless you want to give the Commander a heart attack.”

Solas stumbled back like he’d been struck by lightning. “No,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I—” Solas shook his head. “Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

Before Tamlin could ask him what he meant, Solas was hurrying down the stairs and across the courtyard.

Tamlin scrubbed a hand over his face. “What the fuck just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Su an’banal i’ma -To the void with you


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexual content. Warnings for: dubious consent, magical aphrodisiacs, and over-stimulation.

Tamlin spent the afternoon getting blissfully drunk with Dorian. Cabot’s ale was _almost_ strong enough to wash away the unpleasant memory of Solas running away from him like he had a case of the pox.

When evening fell, he hurried through the great hall and immediately retired to his quarters. He had not seen Solas since the “incident,” nor did he want to. His pride had taken enough damage for one day. What could he say to the elf, anyway? Was he supposed to apologize for kissing him, or was he supposed to yell at him for running off?

Tamlin had no romantic experience to fall back on. Back with his clan, there’d been a few fumbling trysts with his peers. But those encounters had been short-lived and uncomplicated.

And Solas was the antithesis of uncomplicated.

“Oh, good,” he said to the empty room. “I’m thinking about him again. The booze was supposed to fix that.”

Cabot had sworn the dwarven ale would erase any and all bad memories from his mind, but alcohol had a way of fueling Tamlin’s obsessive thinking. His mind worked against him, replaying the “incident” over and over until he had no choice but to admit his crush on Solas had become something more. _I’m just lonely. It could be anyone._ It was a good lie, but deep down, he wanted to be touched by those nimble fingers, to kiss those plush lips, and to get lost in the eyes of deepest snowmelt.

Oh, Fen’harel’s hairy arse, he had it _bad._

Tamlin flung himself down on his bed, immediately regretting it when the room started to spin. “Fuck,” he groaned, pressing a hand to his face. Not only was he utterly besotted, but he was probably going to spend his evening heaving into a bucket. He screwed up his face, closing his eyes tight, and rode out the tumultuous waves of drunkenness until they finally subsided.

When he opened his eyes, the room had settled. The last embers of the evening sun burned bright in the sky, filling his room with soft, crimson light. He was warm. Too warm. Tamlin rolled onto his back and disrobed. It was a struggle since he was lying down, but he just regained his balance, and he didn’t feel like risking another wave of queasiness by standing up. So, with a little effort, he shucked his waistcoat and shirt, and he was in the middle of unlacing his breeches when someone pointedly cleared their throat.

Tamlin lifted his head and saw Solas standing by the stairwell, his shoulders squared, and his hands behind his back. His heart dropped, and butterflies fluttered in his gut— or was that nausea? He couldn’t tell.

“Solas,” he said, awkward as ever. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can come back later if now is a bad time.”

“It’s fine,” Tamlin said. “Just don’t expect me to get up or put my clothes back on.”

“You’re drunk,” Solas said at length.

“A little.”

“You look terrible,” Solas approached the bed. “Did you eat anything?”

“No,” he said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about being half-dressed. “I will as soon as I’m certain I can keep it down.”

“I can help if you’re willing to accept it.”

“How so?”

“I know a spell that can lessen the unpleasant side-effects of inebriation while amplifying the more enjoyable aspects.”

“Are you serious?” Tamlin bit back a laugh. “That doesn’t seem like a spell a scholarly mage would know.”

Solas _almost_ smiled. “I was young once.”

“So, what do I need to do?”

“Just relax.”

Solas held a hand above him, his brow wrinkled in concentration as the Veil warped. The air wavered and distorted, and for a moment, Solas looked like a distant mirage. Warmth suffused Tamlin’s body as the spell chased away what was promising to be a horrific hangover. When it was over, he felt warm and tingly, like he just slid into a hot bath.

“Andraste’s bouncing baps,” Tamlin sighed. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in—” He couldn’t remember when he last felt so good. So _free_. It was as if Solas had washed away the stain of grief and responsibility. “I have no idea. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this.”

“I’m pleased, Inquisitor. I was afraid you might take ill. What did you drink?”

“Dwarven ale.”

“Ah.”

Tamlin propped himself up on his elbows. “So, what did you need? I’m sure you didn’t come to my quarters to ease my hangover.”

“I wanted to apologize for earlier,” Solas said, eyes fixed on a distant point on the horizon. “My behavior was beneath me, and you deserve— you deserve better.”

“Are you referring to groping me or running away?”

“It’s been a long time,” he said, as if that was an acceptable answer.

“Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“My urges got the better of me, and for that, I apologize.” Solas sat down on the bed, near Tamlin’s feet.

“I rather think our urges were aligned,” Tamlin said, staring at the back of Solas’ head. “You had the evidence in the palm of your hand, after all.”

Solas turned, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he said. “I panicked.”

“It’s all right.” Tamlin sighed and dropped back down to the bed, staring at the ceiling. “So, now what?”

“That’s up to you. I will go if you wish, or I will stay.”

A thrill shot through him, lifting his spirits and setting his nerves aflame. Tamlin wondered if he were hallucinating because he never thought Solas would be sitting on his bed, offering to stay the night. He rubbed his eyes. His head was muzzy, and his thoughts were melting into each other, creating a sticky morass of confusion.

Tamlin licked his dry lips. “Are you wanting to pick up where we left off?”

“Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“Oh, well good,” Tamlin said, his voice coming out as a shaky whisper.

Solas sat perfectly still, his stormy eyes boring into the heart of him. “You’re nervous.”

“Terrified,” he admitted.

“I will not leave you wanting if that is your concern.”

Tamlin’s mouth went dry. “That’s not—” He tried to sit up, but he was utterly boneless. He tried to think, but his mind could only focus on the heat pooling low in his belly. “Um, what I mean is—”

Solas stretched out beside him. “You’re thinking too much,” he said, curling his hand around Tamlin’s knee, his palm sliding up his inner thigh.

“It’s getting increasingly difficult to do so.” Tamlin’s heart fluttered in his chest, every nerve alight as Solas’ hand slid ever closer to the apex of his thighs.

“Good,” Solas said, his breath ghosting against Tamlin’s neck. “I intend to chase all thought from your mind until I am all you see— all you know.”

Solas leaned forward. Their mouths opened under each other, and the sweetness of Solas’ throat poured into Tamlin. He eagerly drank him in, intoxicated by the soft movements of the mage’s lips. Solas’ hand slipped over the hard swell hidden beneath his breeches and squeezed. Tamlin’s hips lifted of their own volition.

“Please,” he gasped. “I need to feel you.” He clutched at Solas’ shoulders, his chest, anywhere he could reach.

“How do you want to feel me? Tell me what you want.”

“I want your skin on mine.”

“Patience,” Solas said. “We have all night.”

Tamlin squirmed. “But I—” Words failed him, as they so often did. He knew what he wanted; Solas inside him, filling him, their bodies fitting together like they were made for each other. But he was too ashamed to say it.

Solas hummed, his teeth scraping against Tamlin’s jaw as the stroked him through the cloth. As much as Tamlin longed to feel Solas’ skin on his, his protests died on his lips, and his legs fell open as Solas’ relentless movements pushed him closer to the edge.

Tamlin’s pulse beat against the rhythm of his hand. “Don’t stop,” he groaned, and the feeling inside him gathered until a hoarse cry leapt from his throat, his hips arching into Solas’ touch.

Slowly, Tamlin became aware of his sweat, and his damp breeches, wet with the pleasure Solas’ pulled from him. Tamlin closed his eyes as if he could blind himself to the peril he was in. He waited for Solas’ regret. His rejection.

“Beautiful,” a voice breathed. It sounded like Solas, but distantly, as if they were underwater. “You’re beautiful when you come.”

Tamlin’s eyes snapped open. Solas was _gone,_ and another man— no, not a man, a _demon_ stretched out beside him. The creature moved over him, grinning with a mouth full of sharp teeth. Tamlin tried to push it away, but he was too weak. The demon’s eyes glittered with mirth as it watched him struggle.

“Don’t fight it, love,” it said. “You’re gorgeous. So full of delicious, aching desire. Oh, what it must feel like to be in your head.” A clawed finger traced the outline of Tamlin’s lips.

“Go away,” he managed to say. “This is your last chance, demon. Leave me alone or—”

“Or what?” A clawed hand snaked beneath the hem of Tamlin’s pants, then back up again, slicking seed across his belly. “Is that any way to talk to me after you so thoroughly enjoyed my company?”

“You tricked me.”

“I gave you what you wanted,” it said.

“I didn’t want a lie,” Tamlin grit out.

The demon took on Solas’ visage once again. “Shall we test that theory?”

“No.” Fear rose in him, sudden and sharp. “Leave me alone.”

It laughed. “I will not.”

 _Fen'Harel em ghilana. I do not know what to do._ Tamlin’s throat was tight with panic. He was no mage. He never feared demons plaguing his dreams. But the Anchor changed everything. It linked him to the Fade in a way he didn’t truly understand.

“Don’t fight me,” Solas — _the creature_ — said. “Submit. Let me in. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“That is because he will not live long enough to regret it.”

Tamlin’s eyes flew open. Solas, the _real_ Solas, stood at the far corner of the room. The demon’s illusion melted away when faced with the real thing.

“Oh, go away,” it drawled. “I haven’t finished playing with your little wolf.”

Solas moved closer, his eyes never leaving the demon. “I am giving you a chance to leave of your own accord. You were a spirit of purpose once. Remember that. Remember who you are.”

To Tamlin’s horror, the demon drew the pad of a clawed finger across his cock. His body responded as if the creature already owned him. An unnatural, prickling heat swelled within him. Stiff and aching, his cock strained against his breeches.

“Stop,” Tamlin gasped, hands scrabbling at the blankets beneath him. “Don’t touch me!”

“You were begging me _not_ to stop just a few minutes ago,” the demon said, grinning, enjoying every moment of Tamlin’s shame. “But that was when I looked like him. I can change back if you like.”

Tamlin whimpered. Shame and desire arose in him, fighting for dominance. “ _Fen’harel ver na_ _,”_ he growled.

The demon smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want the Dread Wolf to take you instead?”

“Solas, please do something!” Tamlin begged. The demon’s intoxicating presence had soured, and the swelling desire turned his stomach. Tears of shame gathered in the corners of his eyes. He hated this. He hated the lie, the humiliation, the weakness. He was the fucking Inquisitor, and he was supposed to be better than _this_.

Solas snapped his fingers, and the demon vanished. The room melted at the edges, burning away to reveal the verdant desolation of the Fade. All that remained was the bed, Solas, and Tamlin.

“Are you all right?”

“Where did the demon go?” Tamlin watched Solas from the corner of his eye, unable to meet him head-on.

“Banished to a far corner of the Fade,” Solas said as he approached Tamlin. His eyes swept over him. Once. Twice. “Are you injured?”

Maker, what a sight he must be; over-heated, sweaty, and gasping for air. Evidence of his desire slicked his stomach, and his cock was rock hard and trapped beneath his stained breeches. “I— I can’t move. The demon did something to me. My body feels heavy.” And over-stimulated, but that wasn’t worth mentioning. Solas had eyes, and Tamlin was crushed beneath the weight of his stare.

“That’s not unusual after an encounter with a desire demon,” Solas said, professional as ever. “You’ll feel better after you... _wake up._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel em ghilana – Dread Wolf guide me  
> Fen’harel ver na – Dread Wolf take you  
> \----  
> Oh, Tamlin. You sweet summer child. 
> 
> The next chapter is half-written, and we're shifting back to Solas' POV because Solas is doing _great._
> 
> I have been feeling really self-conscious about my writing since I took such a long break from it. The last couple of years have been a real shitshow and 2020 is shaping up to be the headlining act. Stress is screwing with my creativity and my perception of my abilities. Y'all know how it is when you get into that "everything I do is bad" mindset, right? Anyway, what I am trying to say is that I really appreciate comments and kudos. Every time I get a notification, it's like a hit of positive energy and it keeps me going. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Solas woke with a start.

A sheen of sweat coated his body, soaking into the bedding. He threw off the sodden sheet, shivering when the air caressed his damp skin.

_Fen'Harel em ghilana. I do not know what to do._

He heard the boy's plea from across the Fade, his voice as clear as Chantry bells. Then, some unseen power hooked behind his navel and _pulled_ , and he was unceremoniously ripped from a Fade-memory and thrust unto Tamlin's dream.

This damnable bond between them turned the boy's call for help into a command. One that Solas was unable to refuse. Not that he would leave the Inquisitor to face a desire demon alone. Even if he had a choice, he would go to him. If he could do it over again, he would do it the same. He was hopelessly drawn in, like a moth to a flame. Tamlin was an inferno, and Solas was always stepping too close.

As troublesome as desire demons were, they were honest in the fantasies they peddled. Solas sensed the demon before he saw it, and he expected to see it wearing a mask of Dorian or Cullen or Iron Bull, perhaps. He expected to see _anyone_ but himself in the Inquisitor's bed.

Solas closed his eyes and saw tawny skin, glistening with sweat, the rapid rise-and-fall of a broad chest, a lean stomach daubed with the evidence of what the demon had done — of what Solas _could_ do — to Tamlin. The image was burned into his mind.

 _It has been a long time,_ he told himself, as if that changed anything. The phrase had become a mantra, a convenient excuse for all his careless behavior. Nothing excused the way his mind replayed the memory. There was no sound reasoning in holding on so tight to a fantasy, to someone he could never have. _But you could have him. You could have him bent over the war table or up against a wall; his back pressed against a fresco, his legs around your hips, his body surrendering to you—_

"Stop," he said, his voice too loud in his small room. "This is unwise."

It was ill-advised, foolish, and utterly exhilarating. How long since the Dread Wolf last felt the thrill of the hunt? No one had touched him since his awakening, and for a century beyond that. In the final age of Elvhenan, Solas was all but dead, and Fen'Harel had more significant concerns than those of the physical. He needed nothing and no one, save for a victory over the Evanuris and vengeance for Mythal.

"Nothing good will come of this."

_Can it get any worse?_

"Yes, it absolutely can."

It was wrong to want him. Tamlin was a temporary fragment of a broken world, here and gone in the span of one breath to the next. If Corypheus didn't kill him, the mark would. If the mark didn't kill him, Fen'harel would. The thought of the boy dying hit him like a kick to the chest, and that was a bad sign. He will end when the world ends. Solas cannot alter the course of fate because of an idle fixation.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. _Then stop fixating._

It was impossible to follow his advice with the memory of Tamlin demanding his full attention. His traitorous mind conjured possibilities that made his heart race. As if to escape his notice, his hand slid across his stomach and came to rest between his thighs. It was a shameful thing to do, and a greater shame still in the thoughts that came with it. But it would be worse to allow this sickness to fester. If he could rid his body of this need, then maybe he could free his mind of these depraved imaginings. Perhaps sense will reassert itself. (Nugs were more likely to fly at this juncture, but Solas was not ready to give up hope. Not just yet.)

Solas grit his teeth as his fingers circled his length. How many years had passed since he last did this? Since he last had a reason? He stroked himself. Gently, at first, until he remembered the rhythm he liked— until he remembered it was not pleasure he sought, but an end to this madness, _this obsession_ , that threatened to consume him. His grip tightened, the pressure bordering on painful. Squeezing hard from base to tip, his hips rising to meet each downstroke. Pressure gathered at the base of his spine and bloomed. He jammed a fist against his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to muffle the cry that escaped him when a spurt of warmth hit his stomach.

Seconds passed, his breathing slowed, and the self-loathing set in. There he was, the Dread Wolf, laying in his cot and wanking his feelings away like a lust-addled deviant.

 _Well_ , he thought. _It can't get much worse._

* * *

It was close to noon when Solas finally left his bed-chamber. He washed the shame from his skin, though he felt like it would stain him for the rest of his days. It would be easy to avoid Tamlin during the day, but he was resigned to speak with him before retiring for the night. The boy needed to be sat down and taught a stern lesson about demons. If he had been born a mage, he'd know this already. He would know how to tell the difference between dreams and demons, and he'd be able to protect himself.

Solas entered the rotunda just as Dorian was coming down the stairs.

"Ah, there you are. I was starting to worry you'd taken ill."

"I am well, Dorian." Solas eyed the mage. He was fully armed and armored; a staff slung across his back and potions at his belt. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Dragon hunting in the Western Approach," the mage groused. "Bull spun a yarn about it being his birthday, and the one thing he wanted above all else was to kill a dragon."

"I did not think Qunari celebrated birthdays."

"They don't. I _told_ Tamlin they don't, but he's dead set on fulfilling Bull's ridiculous request." Dorian looked him over. "Are you not coming? You're a better healer than I, and if the last dragon fight is anything to judge by, we're going to need you."

"I was not aware the Inquisitor had plans to leave Skyhold today, let alone slay a dragon." Solas did not bother to hide his irritation. He knew Tamlin would be embarrassed, but this kind of recklessness was beneath him. "Where is he now?"

"He was heading to the stables when I last saw him. Probably looking to rope Blackwall into this madness."

Solas thanked Dorian and walked to the stables in a state of indignation. The Inquisitor had every right to run off with the Iron Bull and fight dragons. There was a certain thrill in facing the raw power of a dragon and coming out on top. But he had come dangerously close to possession just a few hours ago, and Solas was not going to let him forget about it anytime soon.

He found Tamlin as he was leaving the stables. "Inquisitor," he said. "A word."

Tamlin stopped dead in his tracks. To his credit, his face was hard as stone. He revealed no discomfort, save for a tightness about the eyes. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of preparations for—"

"No," Solas snapped. "It cannot wait."

Tamlin's voice dropped into a low whisper. "It _can_ wait if it's about last night."

"It is about last night, but it's not what you think."

He blinked at him. "What is it?"

"Not here," Solas said, leading him away from the crowd that always gathered near the merchants that peddled their wares in the courtyard. When they approached the well, Solas spoke again, "are you aware just how close you came to possession?"

"I'm not a mage. Demons can't possess me. That was just..." Tamlin motioned vaguely.

Solas cocked a brow. "Go on."

"Look, it was..."

"I'm listening."

"I just... Well..." There were more vague motions. With _both_ hands, this time.

Solas took a steadying breath. "You are no mage, but the Anchor gives you control of the Fade. There, you light up like a beacon. Spirits are drawn to you, and it was a matter of time before you attracted the attention of a demon."

"But you banished the demon," he said. "You could teach me to do that. I mean, all you did was snap your fingers and— _poof_!"

Solas lied when he said he merely banished the demon. The Dread Wolf _destroyed_ the demon for straying into his territory. He made it look easy, he supposed. But it would have been unnecessarily grandiose to dispatch the demon in some other way just for the sake of making it look difficult.

"How can you banish a demon if you do not know when you are looking at one?"

Tamlin clenched his fists at his sides. "You have a point."

"The last time I entered your dreams, you were in control. What happened last night?"

"My dreams aren't always lucid," Tamlin said. "Also, I was very drunk."

"It is difficult to assert control of a dream when one is inebriated. So, until you have mastered your dreams, you will not drink anything stronger than an elfroot potion." He lifted his chin, daring Tamlin to argue. "Our first lesson begins tonight."

"How is this supposed to work, exactly? I'm leaving within the hour."

"I’m coming with you.”

Tamlin looked away, a muscle working in his jaw. “You do realize I was trying to get away from you, right?”

“I noticed,” Solas said. “But you needn’t be so hostile.”

“I’m not trying to be!”

“Tamlin,” he said. “It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t! I’ve never been so fucking humiliated in all my life!” Tamlin raked his fingers through his hair as he worked himself into a bluster. “Nothing can ever be normal, can it? I can’t even have a wet dream without attracting demons— or _you_.”

_You called me, fen’len. What did you expect?_

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Solas said, and Tamlin laughed. A dry bark. “It is not the content of your dream that disturbs me, but the demon. I want to help you.”

“You want to help me? Fine. You can start by explaining how you ended up in my dream in the first place.”

“I sensed your distress. I’ve felt your nightmares before, but this was different, and I had no choice but to intervene.”

“And? Is it true? Was I really in danger of becoming possessed?”

“Yes.”

Tamlin ran his tongue along his bottom lip, and Solas had to clench his jaw to prevent himself from mimicking the gesture. It would be so easy to surge forward and taste his mouth. Solas clasped his hands behind his back and pressed his heels into the soft dirt, rooting himself to the ground before impulse turned to action.

“Then, I owe you my thanks,” he said.

Solas smiled despite himself. “It was no trouble.”

“Get your things,” Tamlin said as he turned on his heel. “We’re leaving soon.”

* * *

A week on the road improved the Inquisitor’s mood, as it provided plenty of opportunities to avoid Solas. They did not speak more than necessary, even during their nightly training sessions in the Fade. Solas spoke, and Tamlin listened. He asked questions because he _always_ had questions, but they stayed on topic. They spoke of demons and dragons, of Venatori and darkspawn, but they never once touched on the kiss on the battlements or the dream that sent them down this path.

The dragon hunt, as it turned out, was only half of the story. First, there were rifts to close, darkspawn to kill, and Venatori to hunt. Solas was grateful for it all because he was exhausted at the end of each day. Sleep came easily. Which meant there was no time for his mind to wander upon thoughts that would rile his traitorous body and drive him to distraction.

Night fell, and they struck camp near a dry riverbed. Varric and Blackwall sat around the fire and discussed jousting, of all things. The Iron Bull ran a whetstone across the blade of his sword, a smirk curling his lips. He spent the day making sport of Dorian and was not about to stop anytime soon.

“Quite the stink-eye you’ve got going, Dorian,” Bull said from his place near the fire. “What’s on your mind?”

Dorian gave him a peculiar look. “This dragon hunt has addled your mind. You’ve been stomping around all day, flexing your muscles, huffing like some beast of burden with no thought save conquest.”

“That’s right,” Bull said. “These big muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip.” The camp went utterly still. “I’d pin you down, and as you gripped my horns; I. Would. Conquer. You.”

Silence— save for the hissing of the sand and the crackle of the fire.

Dorian drew himself up. “Excuse me?”

“Oh. Is that not where we’re going with this?”

“No. It was very much not.”

Dorian cursed under his breath as he stomped away. Tamlin followed. Together, they climbed a small dune and talked as twilight faded to dusk. Bull watched them for a while before shifting his attention back to his sword. Varric and Blackwall shared a meaningful look and resumed their conversation. The book in Solas’ lap was forgotten as he watched Tamlin and Dorian, their silhouettes outlined against the night sky. 

It would be kinder in the long run if they found their way to each other. But life was seldom kind.

His gaze dropped to the book in his hands, but his mind wandered. The stars felt closer than Tamlin at this point. The boy did his best to cultivate the distance between them. Whenever Solas got too close, the boy tensed, just like a halla before it’s put to flight. There was always an excuse; somewhere to be, someone to talk to, a report for finish. He didn’t fault the boy for doing what he couldn’t. Tamlin possessed more wisdom than he’d given him credit for.

But the more he ran, the more Solas wanted to pursue. And therein lay the problem. Solas was always looking ahead, focusing on the big picture rather than the minute details. His thoughts were centuries ahead or centuries behind, but never on the present because the present did not matter.

And yet, Tamlin kept dragging Solas’ attention to the present.

So, when Dorian returned to camp and slipped into his tent without a word to anyone, Solas did something decidedly unwise. He set his book aside and walked out to where Tamlin sat on the dune. The Inquisitor gazed up at the stars; his bare feet pressed into the sand.

“Growing up, I never imagined I’d find myself in a place like this.”

“In the desert?” Solas asked.

Tamlin nodded. “Yeah. I’d seen drawings in books, of course. But a drawing can’t capture how it feels to be here. The dry, relentless heat of the day, the bone-deep chill of the night.” He took a deep breath. “It’s magnificent.”

“What else?” he asked, kneeling beside him. If there was anything Solas did not indulge in, it was small talk. But he could listen to Tamlin talk about the weather for ages. It was a blessed moment of simplicity, and he was determined to enjoy it.

“The sky is so _big_ out here.” Tamlin stretched out in the sand, his arms behind his head. “There are no clouds or mountains or trees to block the view. It just goes on and on.”

“Most people would find it difficult to see past the vicious wildlife and the sulfur pits and the sunburns.”

“ _Most people_ are missing out,” he said. “They’ll never see the beauty that’s right in front of them if they’re so focused on what’s _wrong_.”

The corner of Solas’ mouth quirked up. “I’ll remind you of this conversation when we find Bull’s quarry.”

“Would you use my words against me?”

“Most definitely.”

“Ass.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Tamlin laughed. “Like what?”

It was such an innocent question. It was a light-hearted conversation. It was the most content Solas felt all week. He could make up a lie. He could keep things light and airy. But the weight of a thousand sins — a million mistakes — was at his back. Breathing down his neck. Clawing at his flesh. _Traitor. Liar. Madman._ The truth must have shown on his face because Tamlin’s smile faltered. Not for the first time, he thought, _I could tell him._ But he quickly pushed the foolish notion from his mind. The Dread Wolf had the death of an empire on his shoulders. He did not deserve acceptance, nor would he burden the Inquisitor with his confession— with his guilt.

“I dare not repeat them,” Solas said, doing his level best to keep his voice even. “I’d hate to use such indecent language in front of Andraste’s Herald, after all.”

“Yes, my decency must be preserved.” Tamlin rolled his eyes.

“Josephine would never forgive me if I sullied your good reputation.” Solas grinned at him.

“ _Maker_ , I wish you would.”

The longing in Tamlin’s voice nearly broke his resolve. “Careful what you wish for,” Solas gritted out.

“Am I in danger of getting it?”

“Maybe,” Solas said, his voice cracking along with his resolve. “And it may not be what you’d hoped.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Tamlin locked eyes with him. “I think I’d be pretty satisfied if that kiss was anything to judge by.”

That kiss haunted him. His lack of self-control was unacceptable. Tamlin did not — could not — comprehend the nuances of the bond between them. But Solas expected more of himself. He was supposed to push him away. He was going to. But then he was kissing him, and Solas could think of nothing beyond the heat of Tamlin’s mouth and the slide of his tongue.

_My flesh is your feast._

“Do not remind me,” he said. “My behavior was impulsive and ill-considered.”

He hated himself for giving in— and he hated himself for running away.

“I liked your behavior,” Tamlin said, his gaze unwavering.

“I took it too far.”

“You could’ve taken it much farther. I didn’t want you to stop.”

Solas wanted to look away, but he was trapped by the gravity of his stare. He was hanging on his words, living for each breath. He thought of the Evanuris and how they fell victim to their thirst for worship. He thought of the rites and how something must have gone wrong because Tamlin was the one with all the power here. Every time he spoke, Solas listened. Every time he leaned close, Solas lost the ability to speak.

Solas licked his dry lips. “I— I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

“I like trouble.”

He tore his eyes away from the boy and stared out at the bone-white desert sands. _Remember your purpose. Remember who you are._

Solas rose to his feet, and the light of hope faded from Tamlin’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t be what you need.”

Tamlin frowned. “How do you know what I need?”

Solas held his silence as he walked back to camp, hating himself every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel em ghilana – Dread Wolf guide me  
> +++
> 
> Apologies for taking so long to get an update posted. The last month was super busy. And I am also very sorry about Solas. He is keen on tormenting himself, it seems.
> 
> And, yes, I did find a way to work Depeche Mode lyrics into the fic. The song is "In Your Room" and I prefer the album version. It's slow and dark and moody. ❤


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